Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

F or the remainder of the week, a refrain played in Xenia's head.

Do not fail again.

She didn't know what was more terrifying: the bats she'd unleashed or the meal she'd cooked. Either way, she was in no danger of putting her best foot forward. She was fortunate that her employer had let bygones be bygones and was giving her another chance. Truth be told, Lord Ethan's compassion had surprised her, leading her to question whether she'd misjudged him.

Perhaps the day he'd left her in the rain had been an exception to his behavior rather than the rule. Everyone had a bad day, after all. And she couldn't forget how he'd gallantly rescued her from the bats. At night, tucked in her cozy bed, she relived the way he'd carried her as if she were a princess. Brooding, sleek as a panther in his black dressing gown, he'd been a tempting beast.

Her mind had roamed to wicked places. Her hands, too.

What if, after he tossed her on the bed, he'd torn off her nightgown? Shivering, she'd imagined him raking a possessive gaze over her naked flesh and laying bare her darkest fantasies.

You've been a naughty girl , he said.

I didn't mean to release the bats , she protested.

Don't lie to your master. I see you, Xenia, the wicked and the good. You are mine.

As longing swelled inside her, he leaned over, anchoring her wrists above her head. He roughly kneed her legs apart, invading the cove of her body as if he had every right. His trouser-covered thigh pressed against her wet, quivering sex.

What happened next varied depending on her mood. Although she'd never lain with a man, she had a salacious imagination, fed by everything she'd witnessed in the brothels where she'd worked. Her dirty mind had helped her to earn a living, and now she used it for her own pleasure. She let her carnal creativity run wild, picturing the scenes that made her blood run hottest.

Her master would tell her to kneel and service his big, jutting cock with her mouth. Or he would toss her on a bed, claiming her virginity with a powerful thrust. Or he would make her ride him, and she'd skewer herself on his rod again and again while he fondled her breasts… No matter how they made love, his attention never strayed from her. His violet-blue eyes were focused on her, as if she were the only thing he saw.

You're beautiful. His deep voice was the essence of desire. And you belong to me. Say it.

I belong to you, she breathed.

She'd touched herself, smothering her moans in her pillow.

She blamed her hot-blooded nature on her mother. Mama had changed lovers as often as undergarments…even when she'd been married to Papa. When it came to relationships—and life choices in general—Xenia refused to follow in her mother's footsteps. When she made love, she wanted it to be with someone special…someone she loved. This, along with pragmatic concerns about getting with child or contracting some horrid disease, was why she'd held onto her virginity.

But now she was three and twenty, randy, and the wrong man held her imagination captive. Even if Lord Ethan wasn't the grumpy bounder she'd initially believed him to be, he was her employer. His world was a stratosphere above hers, and he would never be interested in a servant. And what about her vow to avoid all attachments? She'd taken this job as a temporary measure, something to tide her over until she could return to the Nunnery.

It is just lust. Don't get distracted. Focus on your work.

For better or worse, she hadn't seen much of Lord Ethan. He'd cloistered himself in his study or bedchamber. She'd tried to ask Mr. Valentine if something was amiss, but the valet, a fastidious fellow with hair the color of marmalade, had made it clear she ought to mind her own business. Even the friendly Brunswick seemed reluctant to discuss their master.

"His lordship has his reasons for wanting privacy," was the most the butler would say. "It's best to leave him be, Mrs. Wood."

Whatever one could say about Lord Ethan, he'd apparently earned the loyalty of his longtime retainers. She pushed thoughts of him aside and concentrated on her duties. It had taken two days and an untold amount of elbow grease, but she'd managed to scrub off the grime coating the entrance hall floor. The effort had been worth it: the pink marble she'd uncovered was resplendent. The floor was so pretty that she resolved to fix up the chandelier so that its light could sparkle over the polished stone.

Brunswick had conveyed the master's decree that she had carte blanche to make improvements as she wished. She could open accounts at the village shops and hire servants at her discretion. The latter was proving difficult due to the fear of Bloody Thom. With the mop fair three days away, she was hoping that the sight of her, hale and hearty after a week's employ at Bottoms House, would entice others to join her.

Meanwhile, she'd found a temporary solution to take care of the meals. Chuddums had an inn named the Briarbush at the corner of High Street, and apropos to its name, the place offered few comforts, encouraging travelers to get back on the road. However, the establishment had one redeeming quality: its kitchen. Mrs. Thornton, the innkeeper's wife, was a temperamental genius who cooked a single dish a day. The menu depended on her mood, and she plunked her food in front of customers while sharing her philosophy on hospitality: "Eat it or starve."

Luckily, her hearty country fare was delicious. After much pleading (and a significant bribe) from Xenia, Mrs. Thornton agreed to send daily baskets to the manor. Since Xenia hadn't heard any complaints about the meals from Lord Ethan (and received ardent approval from the staff), she patted herself on the back for a job well done.

Thus, when her day off arrived, she rewarded herself by exploring the village. It was one of those glorious summer days when it seemed like the good weather would last forever. She trotted down High Street with the sun on her back, a gentle breeze stirring the frayed ribbons of her bonnet, and birds swooping and singing overhead.

She couldn't recall the last time she'd had free time and a bit of spending money. She planned to treat herself to afternoon tea and gossip with Mrs. Pettigrew at the Leaning House but made a quick detour to Hatcherds. On the way, she was waylaid by the ever-helpful Wally, who sported a yellow checkered coat today. When she presented him with a small pot of balm she'd made to ease his rheumatism, he thanked her with a wide, toothless grin.

"This will help me chase down that damned Fenwyck if I ever catch him in the act," the nonagenarian declared.

At the bookshop, Xenia's entry startled the wizened proprietor awake from his nap at the counter.

"If it isn't my favorite patron," Mr. Khan said, beaming.

Since she seemed to be his only patron—this was her third visit and she'd yet to see another customer in the tiny shop—she didn't let the compliment go to her head. She liked Mr. Khan. The friendly widower had wrinkles that rivaled those of a prune and kindly eyes that sparkled behind spectacles thicker than her own. His thick, white hair and eyebrows stood out like fluffy clouds against his skin.

"Good afternoon," she said with a smile. "Have any new books arrived since my last visit?"

Truth be told, her visit was prompted out of a desire to support the business rather than a need for reading material. She'd started going through the trunks in Lord Ethan's library, and it turned out that he owned a lot of books. So many, in fact, that it would take her weeks to unpack the trunks. Curiously, they shared a similar taste in reading material. She'd unearthed gothic novels and volumes of poetry. From Frankenstein and Jane Eyre to collections of verse by Keats, Wordsworth, and Blake, Lord Ethan's interest in the romantic was unexpected…and intriguing.

Men with artistic inclinations were, unfortunately, her Achilles' heel. She'd fallen for Tony after he'd told her about the novel he wanted to write. Unlike the stories he penned for coin, this story was about the common man's struggle, and the passion of his convictions—the way his green eyes had smoldered in his wan face—had hooked her like a fish. He'd only been her follower for a few months before his untimely demise. Her sorrow had dulled with time, but it was a reminder that forming attachments was dangerous. Especially for a woman like her, who would always be on the run. She could enjoy the moment, but she could never set down roots. That was the price of freedom.

"I set these aside, hoping you would come by."

As Mr. Khan bent to retrieve something from behind the counter, his bones creaked like a hinge in need of oiling. He straightened slowly, vertebrae by rusty vertebrae. Although Xenia had read the titles he set on the counter, she thanked him and paid the borrowing fee.

When Mr. Khan deposited the money into his cash box, the coin made a solitary clank.

"Business hasn't been flourishing of late," he said sadly.

By "of late," she wondered if he was referring to the last twenty years. The novels sitting on the shelves of the shop's single weathered bookcase were at least that old.

Not that it's any of your business, she told herself.

Nonetheless, she tried to cheer him up. "Perhaps this is a temporary slump, and business will improve."

"I've lived in Chuddums for over thirty years, Mrs. Wood, and things have only gone in one direction." Gloomily, he jabbed a finger downward to affirm the direction he meant. "Given the curse, I suppose there's nothing that can be done about it."

Despite Xenia's fanciful nature, she also had a practical streak. She wouldn't have survived her upbringing otherwise. The sensible part of her questioned whether everything bad that happened to the village could be attributed to a curse.

"Mr. Bailey told me about the legend concerning Thomas Mulligan," she said. "Do you think it is responsible for all of Chuddums's misfortunes?"

"I do, Mrs. Wood, and I'll tell you why. Every bad thing that has happened here has been foretold in an old poem about Bloody Thom. Have you heard it?"

She shook her head.

Clearing his throat, Mr. Khan intoned,

"Beware, beware the rattling chain

The flapping robes stained red and bold

Beware the moans and wails of pain

For 'tis Bloody Thom they do herald.

He brings death to all who cross his path

Be they creatures with feathers, fur, or skin

Green will wither and fortunes dwindle until his wrath

Is quenched by a true reckoning.

He plays a mournful ballad of blame

Shaking the manor with his ire

His cry for justice is like a flame

That scorches all with unholy fire."

"That is rather, um, dramatic." Xenia's eyes rounded. "Who wrote that poem?"

"No one knows, but it has been passed down for generations. All the schoolchildren know it." Mr. Khan shook his head. "Everything it predicted has come to pass. Crops have mysteriously withered, livestock perished. Businesses have closed, one by one. Take Hatcherds, for instance. When I first opened, I had eight full bookcases, and volumes were flying off the shelves. Now?" He shrugged. "If things don't improve, I shall have to close the store for good."

She couldn't bear to see him lose hope. Or for the village to lose its only source of books. Who would want to live in such a place then?

"Curse or no curse, there must be a way to turn things around," she said.

"I am open to suggestions." Mr. Khan peered at her hopefully.

She gnawed on her lip, surveying the shop. "Perhaps you could spruce up the place?"

He snorted. "If I had the money for that, I'd retire, and devil take the shop."

"It wouldn't require funds to make the space more inviting." If there was one thing she was good at, it was making do with whatever she had. "If you have a spare rug and pair of chairs at home, they would make that empty corner cozier, don't you think? It might encourage customers to come in and stay awhile."

"That is a capital idea, Mrs. Wood. I might have a few things upstairs." His excitement fizzled. "But my rheumatism makes it difficult to carry much."

She couldn't leave the elderly fellow to his own devices. The project was her idea, after all.

"I'll help," she offered.

As it turned out, Mr. Khan had more than a "few things" in his upstairs flat. He had a veritable museum of interesting objects he'd collected during his youthful travels. She learned that he'd once been a sepoy employed by the East India Army. Disillusioned by the shabby and inequitable way Indian officers were treated, he left the army and voyaged around India before making his way to England.

He'd brought a treasure trove of goods from his native land. Fascinated, Xenia learned about a pipe with a long stem called a hookah , and ooh ed and aah ed over an exquisite silk garment called a sari , which had belonged to Mrs. Khan. From a crammed storage room, she helped him unearth a blue rug decorated with vines and birds, a pair of carved rosewood chairs, and a small table. With her fledgling housekeeping skills, she polished up the items and arranged them in the shop. Mr. Khan also found a box of unused stationery items that he put out for sale.

It was nearing dusk by the time Xenia emerged from Hatcherds. Although she had missed afternoon tea at the Leaning House, she was stuffed to the gills because Mr. Khan had insisted on feeding her. The meal of curry, rice, and sweets spiced with cardamon and honey was one of the tastiest she'd ever had. At the doorstep, she returned her host's grateful thanks with her own.

"With any luck, our work will bear fruit," she said cheerfully. "I'm told the mop fair will bring an influx of visitors."

"We can hope, Mrs. Wood." Mr. Khan scrutinized the darkening streets. "It's getting late. Are you certain you won't allow me to escort you home? It isn't safe for a young lady to walk alone."

She was touched that Mr. Khan considered her a lady, but she'd lived in far more dangerous places than Chuddums. She could protect herself…better than he could, at any rate.

"I'll be fine," she reassured him.

"Be sure to avoid the east end of the village," he warned. "The riffraff gather at the docks."

After giving her promise, she set off for Bottoms House. At the deserted village green, she noted the huge shadow cast by the lifeless tree, its canopy of darkness cloaking the monument to Langdon Pearce. Shivering, she instinctively steered clear.

"Mary, dearie! Is that you?"

Xenia turned to see Alice Jenkins, a fellow employee of the Nunnery, heading toward her. A willowy blonde with plush lips, Alice was the brothel's most popular whore. She was a prima donna, yet she had been nice to Xenia—or Mary Smith, rather, the alias Xenia used at the brothel—and generously shared tips of the trade with her. Xenia had put Alice's knowledge to use in her stories.

"What are you doing here?" Xenia exchanged air kisses with her colleague. "I thought you'd gone to live with family in Cookham."

"I was staying with my aunt until her husband wanted more than money for rent." Alice rolled her eyes, as if such despicable behavior was to be expected. "Now I've need o' a place to stay until the Nunnery is up and running. As a matter o' fact, I've a lead on lodgings in Chudleigh Crest…say, you wouldn't be interested in sharing with me? The room is large enough for two."

"It sounds lovely, but I've found a place," Xenia said.

"Where?"

"Um, nearby."

Xenia didn't want to disclose more than necessary. Gossip had a way of traveling. The last thing she wanted was for Lord Ethan to discover that she worked at the Nunnery.

Alice wrinkled her nose. "You couldn't pay me to live here."

Xenia felt oddly protective of the village. She liked the residents she'd met. While they had their quirks, they were also accepting of others' foibles in a way she found charming.

"I find Chuddums to be quite respectable," she said stiffly.

"That's a pity," Alice drawled. "Since I came to find some disreputable distraction."

Xenia noted the saucy plume in the other's hair and the artfully applied face paint. Alice's strong perfume, Attar of Roses, tickled her nose. She'd wager that beneath that dark cloak, Alice wore one of her signature low-cut frocks.

"Are you working?" Xenia asked.

"Not tonight, dove." Alice winked. "A woman needs to let 'er hair down now and again. Why don't you share a pint wif me? Maybe we'll find somefing else to share too. A nice, brawny sailor with stamina, eh?"

Xenia flushed. "I would like to, but I have, um, another engagement."

Alice pinched her cheek as if she were a cute tot. "Always the shy one, ain't you?"

"You ought to be careful at the docks." Recalling Mr. Khan's warning and the brutes outside Mr. Bailey's, Xenia felt a flutter of worry. "I'm told that ruffians gather there?—"

"I like 'em rough and ready."

"Not this rough. If there's a gang in the village, it's best to?—"

"I can take care o' myself." Alice waved off her concerns. "By the by, the Abbess is looking for a temporary place to host a masquerade. She says she'll be in touch through the usual manner."

As a condition of taking the Abbess's ten pounds, Xenia had promised to stay in contact. However, she hadn't wanted the bawd's messages to fall into the wrong hands at her new place of employ. Understanding the need for discretion, the Abbess had agreed to exchange messages via an anonymous box at the post office. In truth, Xenia ought to be happy at the prospect of returning to her previous job. The money she made as Sirena far surpassed her housekeeper's wages. Yet she was beginning to enjoy her life as Mrs. Wood…and she didn't want to give up her cozy attic room, either.

She forced a smile. "I look forward to it."

"You and me, dove. No work and all play is dangerous for women like us, eh?" With another wink, Alice sauntered off.

Bemused and worried, Xenia watched the other melt into the shadows. Then she hurried back to the manor.